■■ f- t! 



THE CRESCENT MOON 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
DALLAS • ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO.. Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. 

TORONTO 



THE 

CRESCENT MOON 

CHILD-POEMS 



BY 

"i^ RABINDRANATH TAGORE 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL BENGALI 
BY THE AUTHOR 



WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN COLOX7B 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1913 



'3J\ 



COPTBIOHT, 191S 

Bt the macmillan company 

Set up and clectrotyped. Published November, 1913. 



fEBRIO PRINTING COMPANY 

New YORn, n. Y., v. s. ^. 






•2-V 



©CIA858378 



I <^ 



M 



TO 
T. STURGE MOORE 



CONTENTS 



PAOB 



The Home 1 

On the Seashore 3 

r 

The Source 5 

Baby^s Way 7 

The Unheeded Pageant - - - 9 

Sleep- Stealer 12 

The Beginning 15 

Baby's World 17 

When and Why 18 

Defamation 20 

The Judge 22 

Playthings 23 

The Astronomer 25 

Clouds and Waves 27 

The Champa Flower - - - - 29 

vii 



viii Contents 

PAOB 

Fairyland 31 

The Land OF THE Exile - - - - 33 

The Rainy Day 36 

Paper Boats 38 

The Sailor 40 

The Further Bank - - - - 42 

The Flower-School 45 

The Merchant 47 

Sympathy 49 

Vocation 50 

Superior 52 

The Little Big Man - - - - 54 

Twelve O'clock 57 

Authorship 58 

The Wicked Postman - - - - 60 

The Hero 62 

The End 66 

The Recall - - - -^ > . - 68 

The First Jasmines - 70 



Contents ix 



PAQB 



The Banyan Tree 72 

Benediction 74 

The Gift 76 

My Song 78 

The Child-Angel 79 

The Last Bargain 81 

LIST OF 
COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece u- 

The Home To face p. 1 

The Beginning 15 

Fairyland 81 ^' 

Paper Boats 38 

The Merchant 47 ' 

The Hero 62'^^ 

Benediction 74 



INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Ah, these jasmines 70 

Ah, who was it coloured that little frock .... 9 

Bless this little heart 74 

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust ... 23 

Come and hire me 81 

Day by day I float my paper boats 38 

I am small because I am a little child . . . . 54 

If baby only wanted to, he could fly 7 

If I were only a little puppy 49 

If people came to know where my King's palace is 31 

I long to go over there 42 

Imagine, mother 47 

I only said, "When in the evening" 25 

I paced alone 1 

It is time for me to go, mother 66 

I want to give you something, my child .... 76 

I wish I could take a quiet corner 17 

Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons . . .57 

Mother, let us imagine we are travelling .... 62 

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds ... 27 

Mother, the light has grown grey 33 

xi 



xii Index of the First Lines 

PAGE 

Mother, your baby is silly 52 

On the seashore of endless worlds 3 

O you shaggy-headed banyan tree 72 

Say of him what you please 22 

Sullen clouds are gathering 36 

Supposing I became a champa flower 29 

The boat of the boatman Madhu 40 

The night was dark when we went away ... 68 

The sleep that flits on baby's eyes 5 

They clamour and fight 79 

This song of mine 78 

When I bring you coloured toys 18 

When storm clouds 45 

When the gong sounds ten 50 

Where have I come from 15 

Who stole sleep from baby's eyes 12 

Why are those tears in your eyes, my child ... 20 

Why do you sit there on the floor 60 

You say that father writes a lot of books . . . . 58 



THE CRESCENT MOON 




THE HOME. 

From a drazving by Xandalall Bosc. 



THE HOME 

I PACED alone on the road across the 
field while the sunset was hiding its 
last gold like a miser. 

The daylight sank deeper and deeper into 
the darkness, and the widowed land, whose 
harvest had been reaped, lay silent. 

Suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the 
sky. He traversed the dark unseen, leaving 
the track of his song across the hush of the 
evening. 

His village home lay there at the end of 
the waste land, beyond the sugar-cane field, 
hidden among the shadows of the banana 
and the slender areca palm, the cocoa-nut and 
the dark green jack- fruit trees. 

I stopped for a moment in my lonely way 
under the starlight, and saw spread before 

1 



2 The Crescent Moon 

me the darkened earth surrounding with her 
arms countless homes furnished with cradles 
and beds, mothers' hearts and evening lamps, 

and young lives glad with a gladness that 
knows nothing of its value for the world. 



Child-Poems 



ON THE SEASHORE 

ON the seashore of endless worlds children 
meet. 
The infinite sky is motionless overhead 
and the restless water is boisterous. On the 
seashore of endless worlds the children meet 
with shouts and dances. 

They build their houses with sand, and 
they play with empty shells. With withered 
leaves they weave their boats and smilingly 
float them on the vast deep. Children have 
their play on the seashore of worlds. 

They know not how to swim, they know 
not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for 
pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while 
children gather pebbles and scatter them 



4i The Crescent Moon 

again. They seek not for hidden treasures, 
they know not how to cast nets. 

The sea surges up with laughter and pale 
gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death- 
dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the 
children, even like a mother while rocking 
her baby's cradle. The sea plays with chil- 
dren, and pale gleams the smile of the sea- 
beach. 

On the seashore of endless worlds children 
meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, 
ships are wrecked in the trackless water, 
death is abroad and children play. On the 
seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting 
of children. 



Child-Poems 5 



THE SOURCE 

THE sleep that flits on baby's eyes — does 
anybody know from where it comes? 
Yes, there is a rmnour that it has its dwelling 
where, in the fairy village among shadows of 
the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there 
hang two shy buds of enchantment. From 
there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. 

The smile that flickers on baby's lips when 
he sleeps — does anybody know where it was 
born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young 
pale beam of a crescent moon touched the 
edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there 
the smile was first born in the dream of a 
dew-washed morning — the smile that flickers 
on baby's lips when he sleeps. 

The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on 
baby's limbs — does anybody know where it 



6 The Crescent Moon 

was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother 
was a young girl it lay pervading her heart 
in tender and silent mystery of love — the 
sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on 
baby's limbs. 



Child-Poems 



BABY'S WAY 

IF baby only wanted to, he could fly up to 
heaven this moment. 
It is not for nothing that he does not 
leave us. 

He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, 
and cannot ever bear to lose sight of her. 

Baby knows all manner of wise words, 
though few on earth can understand their 
meaning. 

It is not for nothing that he never wants 
to speak. 

The one thing he wants is to learn mother's 
words from mother's lips. That is why he 
looks so innocent. 

Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet 
he came like a beggar on to this earth. 



8 The Crescent Moon 

It is not for nothing he came in such a 
disguise. 

This dear httle naked mendicant pretends 
to be utterly helpless, so that he may beg 
for mother's wealth of love. 

Baby was so free from every tie in the land 
of the tiny crescent moon. 

It was not for nothing he gave up his 
freedom. 

He knows that there is room for endless 
joy in mother's little corner of a heart, and 
it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught 
and pressed in her dear arms. 

Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt 
in the land of perfect bliss. 

It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed 
tears. 

Though with the smile of his dear face he 
draws mother's yearning heart to him, yet his 
little cries over tiny troubles weave the double 
bond of pity and love. 



Child'Poerns 9 



THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT 

AH, who was it coloured that Httle frock, 
my child, and covered your sweet limbs 
with that little red tunic? 

You have come out in the morning to 
play in the courtyard, tottering and tumbling 
as you run. 

But who was it coloured that little frock, 
my child? 

What is it makes you laugh, my little life- 
bud? 

Mother smiles at you standing on the 
threshold. 

She claps her hands and her bracelets 
jingle, and you dance with your bamboo 
stick in your hand like a tiny little shep- 
herd. 



10 The Crescent Moon 

But what is it makes you laugh, my little 
life-bud? 

O beggar, what do you beg for, clinging 
to your mother's neck with both your 
hands ? 

O greedy heart, shall I pluck the world 
like a fruit from the sky to place it on your 
little rosy palm? 

O beggar, what are you begging for? 

The wind carries away in glee the tinkling 
of your anklet bells. 

The sun smiles and watches your toilet. 

The sky watches over you when you sleep 
in your mother's arms, and the morning 
comes tiptoe to your bed and kisses your eyes. 

The wind carries away in glee the tinkling 
of your anklet bells. 

The fairy mistress of dreams is coming 
towards you, flying through the twilight sky. 



Child-Poems 11 

The world-mother keeps her seat by you 
in your mother's heart. 

He who plays his music to the stars is 
standing at your window with his flute. 

And the fairy mistress of dreams is coming 
towards you, flying through the twihght sky. 



12 The Crescent Moon 



SLEEP-STEALER 

WHO stole sleep from baby's eyes? I 
must know. 

Clasping her pitcher to her waist, mother 
went to fetch water from the village near by. 

It was noon. The children's playtime 
was over; the ducks in the pond] were 
silent. 

The shepherd boy lay asleep under the 
shadow of the banyan tree. 

The crane stood grave and still in the swamp 
near the mango grove. 

In the meanwhile the Sleep-stealer came 
and, snatching sleep from baby's eyes, flew 
away. 

When mother came back she found baby 
travelling the room over on all fours. 



Child-Poems 13 

Who stole sleep from our baby's eyes? I 
must know. I must find her and chain 
her up. 

I must look into that dark cave, where, 
through boulders and scowling stones, trickles 
a tiny stream. 

I must search in the drowsy shade of the 
bakula grove, where pigeons coo in their 
corner, and fairies' anklets tinkle in the still- 
ness of starry nights. 

In the evening I will peep into the whisper- 
ing silence of the bamboo forest, where fire- 
flies squander their light, and will ask every 
creature I meet, "Can anybody tell me where 
the Sleep-stealer lives?" 

Who stole sleep from baby's eyes? I must 
know. 

Shouldn't I give her a good lesson if I could 
only catch her! "" 

I would raid her nest and see where she 
hoards all her stolen sleep. 



14 The Crescent Moon 

I would plunder it all, and carry it home. 

I would bind her two wings securely, set 

her on the bank of the river, and then let 

her play at fishing with a reed among the 

rushes and water-lilies. 

When the marketing is over in the evening, 

and the village children sit in their mothers' 

laps, then the night birds will mockingly din 

her ears with: 

"Whose sleep will you steal now?*' 




.^^^ 




THE BEGINNING. 

Fro 1)1 a dra%ving by Asit Kumar Haldar. 



Child-Poems 15 



c 



w 



THE BEGINNING 

HERE have I come from, where did 
you pick me up?" the baby asked 
its mother. 

She answered half crying, half laughing, 
and clasping the baby to her breast, — 

"You were hidden in my heart as its 
desire, my darling. 

You were in the dolls of my childhood's 
games; and when with clay I made the 
image of my god every morning, I made and 
unmade you then. 

You were enshrined with our household 
deity, in his worship I worshipped you. 

In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, 
in the life of my mother you have lived. 

In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules 
our home you have been nursed for ages. 



16 The Crescent Moon 

When in girlhood my heart was opening 
its petals, you hovered as a fragrance about 
it. 

Your tender softness bloomed in my youth- 
ful limbs, like a glow in the sky before the 
sunrise. 

Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the 
morning light, you have floated down the 
stream of the world's life, and at last you 
have stranded on my heart. 

As I gaze on your face, mystery over- 
whelms me; you who belong to all have 
become mine. 

For fear of losing you I hold you tight to 
my breast. What magic has snared the 
world's treasure in these slender arms of 
mine? 



, / t? 



Child-Poems 17 



BABY'S WORLD 

I WISH I could take a quiet corner in the 
heart of my baby's very own world. 
I know it has stars that talk to him, and 
a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse 
him with its silly clouds and rainbows. 

Those who make believe to be dumb, and 
look as if they never could move, come creep- 
ing to his window with their stories and with 
trays crowded with bright toys. 

I wish I could travel by the road that crosses 
baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds ; 

Where messengers run errands for no cause 
between the kingdoms of kings of no history; 

Where Reason makes kites of her laws and 
flies them, and Truth sets Fact free from its 
fetters. 



18 The Crescent Moon 



WHEN AND WHY 

WHEN I bring you coloured toys, my 
child, I understand why there is such 
a play of colours on clouds, on water, and 
why flowers are painted in tints — when I give 
coloured toys to you, my child. 

When I sing to make you dance, I truly 
know why there is music in leaves, and why 
waves send their chorus of voices to the heart 
of the listening earth — when I sing to make 
you dance. 

When I bring sweet things to your greedy 
hands, I know why there is honey in the cup 
of the flower, and why fruits are secretly 
filled with sweet juice — when I bring sweet 
things to your greedy hands. 

When I kiss your face to make you smile, 
my darling, I surely understand what pleasure 



Child-Poems 19 

streams from the sky in morning light, and 
what delight the summer breeze brings to my 
body — when I kiss you to make you smile. 



/ 



20 The Crescent Moon 



DEFAMATION 

> 

WHY are those tears in your eyes, my 
child? 

How horrid of them to be always scolding 
you for nothing! 

You have stained your fingers and face 
with ink while writing — is that why they 
call you dirty? 

O, fie! Would they dare to call the full 
moon dirty because it has smudged its face 
with ink? 

For every little trifle they blame you, my 
child. They are ready to find fault for 
nothing. 

You tore your clothes while playing — is 
that why they call you untidy? 

O, fie! What would they call an autumn 



Child-Poems 21 

morning that smiles through its ragged 
clouds ? 



Take no heed of what they say to you, 
my child. 

They make a long list of your misdeeds. 

Everybody knows how you love sweet 
things — is that why they call you greedy? 

O, fie! What then would they call us who 
love you ? 



22 The Crescent Moon 



THE JUDGE 

SAY of him what you please, but I know 
my child's failings. 

I do not love him because he is good, but 
because he is my little child. 

How should you know how dear he can be 
when you try to weigh his merits against his 
faults? 

When I must punish him he becomes all the 
more a part of my being. 

When I cause his tears to come my heart 
weeps with him. 

I alone have a right to blame and punish, 
for he only may chastise who loves. 



Child-Poems ^3 



PLAYTHINGS 

CHILD, how happy you are sitting in 
the dust, playing with a broken twig all 
the morning. 

I smile at your play with that little bit of a 
broken twig. 

I am busy with my accounts, adding up fig- 
ures by the hour. 

Perhaps you glance at me and think, 
"What a stupid game to spoil your morning 
with!" 

Child, I have forgotten the art of being 
absorbed in sticks and mud-pies. 

I seek out costly playthings, and gather 
lumps of gold and silver. 

With whatever you find you create your 
glad games, I spent both my time and 
my strength over things I never can obtain. 



24 The Crescent Moon 

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the 
sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing 

a game. 



Child-Poems 25 



THE ASTRONOMER 

I ONLY said, **When in the evening the 
round full moon gets entangled among 
the branches of that Kadam tree, couldn't 
somebody catch it?" 

But dada ^ laughed at me and said, 
"Baby, you are the silliest child I have ever 
known. The moon is ever so far from us, 
how could anybody catch it?" 

I said, "Dada, how foolish you are! 
When mother looks out of her window and 
smiles down at us playing, would you call her 
far away?" 

Still dada said, "You are a stupid child! 
But, baby, where could you find a net big 
enough to catch the moon with?" 

I said, "Surely you could catch it with 
your hands." 

^ Elder brother. 



26 The Crescent Moon 

But dada laughed and said, "You are the 
silliest child I have known. If it came 
nearer, you would see how big the moon is." 

I said, "Dada, what nonsense they teach 
at vour school ! When mother bends her face 
down to kiss us does her face look very big?" 

But still dada says, "You are a stupid 
child." 



Child-Poems 27 



CLOUDS AND WAVES 

MOTHER, the folk who live up in the 
clouds call out to me — 
"We play from the time we wake till the 

day ends. 

We play with the golden dawn, we play 

with the silver moon." 

I ask, "But, how am I to get up to you?" 

They answer, "Come to the edge of the 
earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you 
will be taken up into the clouds." 

"My mother is waiting for me at home," 
I say. "How can I leave her and come?" 

Then they smile and float away. 

But I know a nicer game than that, mother. 

I shall be the cloud and you the moon. 

I shall cover you with both my hands, and 
our house-top will be the blue sky. 



28 The Crescent Moon 

The folk who live in the waves call out to 
me — 

*'We sing from morning till night; on 
and on we travel and know not where we 
pass." 

I ask, "But, how am I to join you?" 

They tell me, "Come to the edge of the 
shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, 
and you will be carried out upon the waves." 

I say, "My mother always wants me at 
home in the evening — how can I leave her 
and go?" 

Then they smile, dance and pass by. 

But I know a better game than that. 

I will be the waves and you will be a 
strange shore. 

I shall roll on and on and on, and break 
upon your lap with laughter. 

And no one in the world will know where 
we both are. 



Child-Poems 29 



>. 



THE CHAMPA FLOWER 

SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, 
just for fun, and grew on a branch 
high up that tree, and shook in the wind with 
laughter and danced upon the newly budded 
leaves, would you know me, mother? 

You would call, ''Baby, where are you?" 
and I should laugh to myself and keep quite 
quiet. 

I should slyly open my petals and watch 
you at your work. 

When after your bath, with wet hair 
spread on your shoulders, you walked through 
the shadow of the champa tree to the little 
court where you say your praj^ers, you 
would notice the scent of the flower, but not 
know that it came from me. 

When after the midday meal you sat at the 



30 TJie Crescent Moon 

window reading Ramayana, and the tree's 
shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I 
should fling my wee little shadow on to the 
page of your book, just where you were 
reading. 

But would you guess that it was the tiny 
shadow of your little child? 

When in the evening you went to the cow- 
shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I 
should suddenly drop on to the earth again 
and be your own baby once more, and beg 
you to tell me a story. 

"Where have you been, you naughty 
child?" 

"I won't tell you, mother." That's what 
you and I would say then. 




FAIRYLAND. 

From a draiving by Abanindranath Tagorc. 



Child-Poems 81 



FAIRYLAND 

IF people came to know where my king's 
palace is, it would vanish into the air. 

The walls are of white silver and the roof 
of shining gold. 

The queen Uves in a palace with seven 
courtvards, and she wears a jewel that cost all 
the wealth of seven kingdoms. 

But, let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, 
where my king's palace is. 

It is at the corner of our terrace where the 
pot of the tiilsi plant stands. 

The princess hes sleeping on the far-away 
shore of the seven impassable seas. 

There is none in the world who can find 
her but myself. 

She has bracelets on her arms and pearl 



32 The Crescent Moon 

drops in her ears; her hair sweeps down 
upon the floor. 

She will wake when I touch her with my 
magic wand, and jewels will fall from her 
lips when she smiles. 

But let me whisper in your ear, mother; 
she is there in the corner of our terrace 
where the pot of the tulsi plant stands. 

When it is time for you to go to the river 
for your bath, step up to that terrace on the 
roof. 

I sit on the corner where the shadows of 
the walls meet together. 

Only puss is allowed to come with me, for 
she knows where the barber in the story 
lives. 

But let me whisper, mother, in your ear 
where the barber in the story lives. 

It is at the corner of the terrace where the 
pot of the tulsi plant stands. 



Child-Poems 33 



THE LAND OF THE EXILE 

MOTHER, the light has grown grey in 
the sky; I do not know what the 
time is. 

There is no fun in my play, so I have come 
to you. It is Saturday, our holiday. 

Leave off your work, mother; sit here by 
the window and tell me where the desert of 
Tepantar in the fairy tale is? 

The shadow of the rains has covered the 
day from end to end. 

The fierce lightning is scratching the sky 
with its nails. 

When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I 
love to be afraid in my heart and cling to you. 

When the heavy rain patters for hours on 
the bamboo leaves, and our windows shake 



34 The Crescent Moon 

and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit 
alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear 
you talk about the desert of Tepantar in the 
fairy tale. 

Where is it, mother, on the shore of what 
sea, at the foot of what hills, in the kingdom 
of what king? 

There are no hedges there to mark the 
fields, no footpath across it by which the 
villagers reach their village in the evening, 
or the woman who gathers dry sticks in 
the forest can bring her load to the market. 
With patches of yellow grass in the sand 
and only one tree where the pair of wise 
old birds have their nest, lies the desert of 
Tepantar. 

I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy 
day, the young son of the king is riding alone 
on a grey horse through the desert, in search of 
the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's 
palace across that unknown water. 



Child-Poems 35 

When the haze of the rain comes down in 
the distant sky, and lightning starts up Hke 
a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his 
unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, 
sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her eyes, 
while he rides through the desert of Tepantar 
in the fairy tale? 

See, mother, it is almost dark before the day 
is over, and there are no travellers yonder on 
the village road. 

The shepherd boy has gone home early 
from the pasture, and men have left their 
fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their 
huts, watching the scowling clouds. 

Mother, I have left all my books on the 
shelf — do not ask me to do my lessons 
now. 

When I grow up and am big like my father, 
I shall learn all that must be learnt. 

But just for to-day, tell me, mother, where 
the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is? 



36 The Crescent Moon 



THE RAINY DAY 

SULLEN clouds are gathering fast over 
the black fringe of the forest. 
O child, do not go out ! 
The palm trees in a row by the lake are 
smiting their heads against the dismal sky; 
the crows with their draggled wings are silent 
on the tamarind branches, and the eastern 
bank of the river is haunted by a deepening 
gloom. 

Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence. 

O child, wait here till I bring her into the 
stall. 

Men have crowded into the flooded field to 
catch the fishes as they escape from the over- 
flowing ponds; the rain water is running in 
rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing 



Child-Poems 37 

boy who has run away from his mother to 
tease her. 

Listen, someone is shouting for the boat- 
man at the ford. 

O child, the dayhght is dim, and the crossing 
at the ferry is closed. 

The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly- 
rushing rain; the water in the river is loud 
and impatient; women have hastened home 
early from the Ganges with their filled 
pitchers. 

The evening lamps must be made ready. 

O child, do not go out! 

The road to the market is desolate, the 
lane to the river is slippery. The wind is 
roaring and struggling among the bamboo 
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net. 



38 The Crescent Moon 



PAPER BOATS 

DAY by day I float my paper boats one 
by one down the running stream. 

In big black letters I write my name on 
them and the name of the village where I live. 

I hope that someone in some strange land 
will find them and know who I am. 

I load my little boats with shiuli flowers 
from our garden, and hope that these blooms 
of the dawn will be carried safely to land in 
the night. 

I launch my paper boats and look up into 
the sky and see the little clouds setting their 
white bulging sails. 

I know not what playmate of mine in the 
sky sends them down the air to race with my 
boats ! 

When night comes I bury my face in my 




PAPER BOAT. 

From a drawing by Surendranath Gangiili. 



Child-Poems 39 

arms and dream that my paper boats float on 
and on under the midnight stars. 

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and 
the lading is their baskets full of dreams. 



40 The Crescent Moon 



THE SAILOR 

THE boat of the boatman Madhu is 
moored at the wharf of Raj gun j. 

It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been 
lying there idle for ever so long. 

If he would only lend me his boat, I should 
man her with a hundred oars, and hoist sails, 
five or six or seven. 

I should never steer her to stupid markets. 

I should sail the seven seas and the thirteen 
rivers of fairyland. 

But, mother, you won't weep for me in a 
corner. 

I am not going into the forest like Rama- 
chandra to come back only after fourteen 
years. 



Child-Poems 41 

I shall become the prince of the story, and 
fill my boat with whatever I like. 

I shall take my friend Ashu with me. We 
shall sail merrily across the seven seas and 
the thirteen rivers of fairyland. 

We shall set sail in the early morning 
light. 

When at noontide you are bathing at the 
pond, we shall be in the land of a strange 
king. 

We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and 
leave behind us the desert of Tepantar. 

When we come back it will be getting dark, 
and I shall tell you of all that we have seen. 

I shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen 
rivers of fairyland. 



42 The Crescent Moon 



THE FURTHER BANK 

I LONG to go over there to the further 
bank of the river, 

Where those boats are tied to the bamboo 
poles in a hne ; 

Where men cross over in their boats in the 
morning vrith ploughs on their shoulders to 
till their far-away fields ; 

Where the cowherds make their lowing 
cattle swim across to the riverside pasture; 

Whence they all come back home in the 
evening, leaving the jackals to howl in the 
island overgrown with weeds. 

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to 
become the boatman of the ferry w^hen I am 
grown up. 

They say there are strange pools hidden 
behind that high bank. 



Child-Poems 43 

Where flocks of wild ducks come when the 
rains are over, and thick reeds grow round 
the margins where waterbirds lay their 
eggs; 

Where snipes with their dancing tails 
stamp their tiny footprints upon the clean 
soft mud; 

Where in the evening the tall grasses crested 
with white flowers invite the moonbeam to float 
upon their waves. 

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to 
become the boatman of the ferryboat when I 
am grown up. 

I shall cross and cross back from bank to 
bank, and all the boys and girls of the village 
will wonder at me while they are bathing. 

When the sun climbs the mid sky and 
morning wears on to noon, I shall come 
running to you, saying, "Mother, I am 
hungry!" 

When the day is done and the shadows 



44 The Crescent Moon 

cower under the trees, I shall come back in 
the dusk. 

I shall never go away from you into the 
town to work like father. 

Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to 
become the boatman of the ferryboat when I 
am grown up. 



Child-Poems 45 



THE FLOWER-SCHOOL 

WHEN storm clouds rumble in the sky 
and June showers come down, 
The moist east wind comes marching over 
the heath to blow its bagpipes among the 
bamboos. 

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sud- 
den, from nobody knows where, and dance 
upon the grass in wild glee. 

Mother, I really think the flowers go to 
school underground. 

They do their lessons with doors shut, and 
if they want to come out to play before it is 
time, their master makes them stand in a 
corner. 

When the rains come they have their 
holidays. 



46 The Crescent Moon 

Branches clash together in the forest, and 
the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder- 
clouds clap their giant hands and the flower 
children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow 
and white. 

Do you know, mother, their home is in the 
sky, where the stars are. 

Haven't you seen how eager they are to 
get there? Don't you know why they are in 
such a hurry? 

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise 
their arms: they have their mother as I have 
my own. 



Child-Poems Vt 



THE MERCHANT 

I IMAGINE, mother, that you are to stay at 
home and I am to travel into strange 
lands. 

Imagine that my boat is ready at the land- 
ing fully laden. 

Now think well, mother, before you say 
what I shall bring for you when I come 
back. 

Mother, do you w^ant heaps and heaps of 
gold? 

There, by the banks of golden streams, 
fields are full of golden harvest. 

And in the shade of the forest path the 
golden champa flowers drop on the ground. 

I will gather them all for you in many 
hundred baskets. 



48 The Crescent Moon 

Mother, do you want pearls big as the rain- 
drops of autumn? 

I shall cross to the pearl island shore. 

There in the early morning light pearls 
tremble on the meadow flowers, pearls drop 
on the grass, and pearls are scattered on the 
sand in spray by the wild sea-waves. 

My brother shall have a pair of horses with 
wings to fly among the clouds. 

For father I shall bring a magic pen that, 
without his knowing, will write of itself. 

For you, mother, I must have the casket 
and jewel that cost seven kings their king- 
doms. 



Child-Poems 49 



SYMPATHY 

IF I were only a little puppy, not your baby, 
mother dear, would you say "No" to me 
if I tried to eat from your dish? 

Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get 
away, you naughty little puppy?" 

Then go, mother, go! I will never come 
to you when you call me, and never let you 
feed me any more. 

If I were only a little green parrot, and 
not your baby, mother dear, would you keep 
me chained lest I should fly away? 

Would you shake your finger at me and 
say, "What an ungrateful wretch of a bird! 
It is gnawing at its chain day and night?" 

Then, go, mother, go! I will run away 
into the woods; I will never let you take me 
in your arms again. 



50 The Crescent Moon 



VOCATION 

WHEN the gong sounds ten in the morn- 
ing and I walk to school by our lane, 

Everyday I meet the hawker crying, 
"Bangles, crystal bangles!" 

There is nothing to hurry him on, there is 
no road he must take, no place he must go 
to, no time when he must come home. 

I wish I were a hawker, spending my 
day in the road, crying, "Bangles, crystal 
bangles!" 

When at four in the afternoon I come back 
from the school. 

I can see through the gate of that house 
the gardener digging the ground. 

He does what he likes with his spade, he 
soils his clothes with dust, noboby takes him 



Child-Poems 51 

to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets 
wet. 

I wish I were a gardener digging away at 
the garden with nobody to stop me from 
digging. 

Just as it gets dark in the evening and my 
mother sends me to bed, 

I can see through my open window the 
watchman walking up and down. 

The lane is dark and lonely and the street- 
lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in 
its head. 

The watchman swings his lantern and 
walks with his shadow at his side, and never 
once goes to bed in his life. 

I wish I were a watchman walking the 
streets all night, chasing the shadows with my 
lantern. 



52 The Crescent Moon 



SUPERIOR 

MOTHER, your baby is silly ! She is so 
absurdly childish ! 

She does not know the difference between 
the lights in the streets and the stars. 

When we play at eating with pebbles, she 
thinks they are real food, and tries to put 
them into her mouth. 

When I open a book before her and ask 
her to learn her a, b, c, she tears the leaves 
with her hands and roars for joy at noth- 
ing; this is your baby's way of doing her 
lesson. 

When I shake my head at her in anger and 
scold her and call her naughty, she laughs and 
thinks it great fun. 

Everybody knows that father is away, but, 
if in play I call aloud "Father," she looks 



Child-Poems 53 

about her in excitement and thinks that 
father is near. 

When I hold my class with the donkeys 
that our washerman brings to carry away the 
clothes and I warn her that I am the school- 
master, she will scream for no reason and call 
me dada.^ 

Your baby wants to catch the moon. She 
is so funny; she calls Ganesh ^ Ganush. 

Mother, your baby is silly, she is so 
absurdly childish! 

» Elder brother. 

2 Ganesh, a common name in India, also that of the god 
with the elephant's head. 



54 The Crescent Moon 



THE LITTLE BIG MAN 

I AM small because I am a little child. I 
shall be big when I am as old as my 
father is. 

My teacher will come and say, "It is late, 
bring your slate and your books." 

I shall tell him, "Do you not know I am 
as big as father? And I must not have 
lessons any more." 

My master will wonder and say, "He can 
leave his books if he likes, for he is grown up." 

I shall dress myself and walk to the fair 
where the crowd is thick. 

My uncle will come rushing up to me and 
say, "You will get lost, my boy; let me carry 

you." 

I shall answer, "Can't you see, uncle, I am 



Child-Poems 55 

as big as father? I must go to the fair 
alone/' 

Uncle will say, "Yes, he can go wherever 
he likes, for he is grown up." 

Mother will come from her bath when I 
am giving money to my nurse, for I 
shall know how to open the box with my 
key. 

Mother will say, "What are you about, 
naughty child?" 

I shall tell her, "Mother, don't you know, 
I am as big as father, and I must give silver 
to my nurse." 

Mother will say to herself, "He can give 
money to whom he likes, for he is grown 
up." 

In the holiday time in October father will 
come home and, thinking that I am still a 
baby, will bring for me from the town little 
shoes and small silken frocks. 



\ I V 



56 The Crescent Moon 

I shall say, "Father, give them to my 
dada,^ for I am as big as you are." 

Father will think and say, "He can buy 
his own clothes if he likes, for he is grown up.'* 

^ Elder brother. 



Child-Poems 57 



TWELVE O'CLOCK 

MOTHER, I do want to leave off my 
lessons now. I have been at my book 
all the morning. 

You say it is only twelve o'clock. Sup- 
pose it isn't any later; can't you ever think 
it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock? 

I can easily imagine now that the sun has 
reached the edge of that rice-field, and the 
old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for her 
supper by the side of the pond. 

I can just shut my eyes and think that the 
shadows are growing darker under the madar 
tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny 
black. 

If twelve o'clock can come in the night, 
why can't the night come when it is twelve 
o'clock? 



&S The Crescent Moon 



AUTHORSHIP 

YOU say that father writes a lot of 
books, but what he writes I don't 
understand. 

He was reading to you all the evening, but 
could you really make out what he meant? 

What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! 
Why can't father write like that, I wonder? 

Did he never hear from his own mother 
stories of giants and fairies and princesses? 

Has he forgotten them all? 

Often when he gets late for his bath you 
have to go and call him an hundred times. 

You wait and keep his dishes w^arm for 
him, but he goes on writing and forgets. 

Father always plays at making books. 



Child-Poems 59 

If ever I go to play in father's room, you 
come and call me, "what a naughty child!" 

If I make the slightest noise, you say, 
"Don't you see that father's at his work?" 

What's the fun of always writing and 
writing? 

When I take up father's pen or pencil and 
write upon his book just as he does, — a, b, c, 
d, e, f, g, h, i, — why do you get cross with 
me, then, mother? 

You never say a word when father writes. 

When my father wastes such heaps of 
paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at 
all. 

But if I take only one sheet to make a boat 
with, you say, "Child, how troublesome you 
are!" 

What do you think of father's spoiling 
sheets and sheets of paper with black marks 
all over on both sides? 



/ 



60 The Crescent Moon 



THE WICKED POSTMAN 

WHY do you sit there on the floor so 
quiet and silent, tell me, mother dear? 

The rain is coming in through the open win- 
dow, making you all wet, and you don't 
mind it. 

Do you hear the gong striking four? It 
is time for my brother to come home from 
school. 

What has happened to you that you look 
so strange? 

Haven't you got a letter from father 
to-day? 

I saw the postman bringing letters in his 
bag for almost everybody in the town. 

Only, father's letters he keeps to read him- 
self. I am sure the postman is a wicked 
man. 



Child-Poems 61 

But don't be unhappy about that, mother 
dear. 

To-morrow is market day in the next vil- 
lage. You ask your maid to buy some pens 
and papers. 

I myself will write all father's letters; you 
will not find a single mistake. 

I shall write from A right up to K. 

But, mother, why do you smile? 

You don't believe that I can write as nicely 
as father does! 

But I shall rule my paper carefully, and 
write all the letters beautifully big. 

When I finish my writing, do you think I 
shall be so foolish as father and drop it into 
the horrid postman's bag ? 

I shall bring it to you myself without wait- 
ing, and letter by letter help you to read my 
writing. 

I know the postman does not like to give 
you the really nice letters. 



62 The Crescent Moon 



THE HERO 

MOTHER, let us imagine we are travel- 
ling and passing through a strange 
and dangerous country. 

You are riding in a palanquin and I am 
trotting by you on a red horse. 

It is evening and the sun goes down. The 
waste of Joradighi lies wan and grey before 
us. The land is desolate and barren. 

You are frightened and thinking — "I know 
not where we have come to." 

I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid." 

The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, 
and through it runs a narrow broken path. 

There are no cattle to be seen in the 
wide field; they have gone to their village 
stalls. 




THE HERO. 

From a drawing by Nandalall Base. 



Child-Poems 63 

It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, 
and we cannot tell where we are going. 

Suddenly you call me and ask me in 
a whisper, "What light is that near the 
bank?" 

Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, 
and figures come running towards us. 

You sit crouched in your palanquin and 
repeat the names of the gods in prayer. 

The bearers, shaking in terror, hide them- 
selves in the thorny bush. 

I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother, 
I am here." 

With long sticks in their hands and hair 
all wild about their heads, they come nearer 
and nearer. 

I shout, "Have a care! you villains! One 
step more and you are dead men." 

They give another terrible yell and rush 
forward. 



64 The Crescent Moon 

You clutch my hand and say, "Dear boy, 
for heaven's sake, keep away from them." 
I say, "Mother, just you watch me." 

Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop, and 
my sword and buckler clash against each 
other. 

The fight becomes so fearful, mother, that 
it would give you a cold shudder could you 
see it from your palanquin. 

Many of them fly, and a great number are 
cut to pieces. 

I know you are thinking, sitting all by 
yourself, that your boy must be dead by this 
time. 

But I come to you all stained with 
blood, and say, "Mother, the fight is over 
now." 

You come out and kiss me, pressing me to 
your heart, and you say to yourself, 

"I don't know what I should do if I hadn't 
my boy to escort me." 



Child-Poems 65 

A thousand useless things happen day after 
day, and why couldn't such a thing come true 
by chance? 

It would be hke a story in a book. 

My brother would say, "Is it possible? I 
always thought he was so delicate!" 

Our village people would all say in amaze- 
ment, ''Was it not lucky that the boy was with 
his mother?" 



66 The Crescent Moon 



THE END 

IT is time for me to go, mother ; I am going. 
When in the pahng darkness of the lonely 
dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby 
in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not there!" 
— mother, I am going. 

I shall become a delicate draught of air 
and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the 
water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss 
you again. 

In the gusty night when the rain patters 
on the leaves you will hear my whisper in 
your bed, and my laughter will flash with the 
lightning through the open window into your 
room. 

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till 
late into the night, I shall sing to you from 
the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep." 



Child-Poems 67 

On the straying moonbeams I shall steal 
over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while 
you sleep. 

I shall become a dream, and through the 
little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into 
the depths of your sleep, and when you wake 
up and look round startled, like a twinkling 
firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. 

When, on the great festival of puja, the 
neighbours' children come and play about the 
house, I shall melt into the music of the flute 
and throb in your heart all day. 

Dear auntie will come with pwja-presents 
and will ask, ''Where is our baby, sister?" 
Mother, you will tell her softly, *'He is in 
the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and 
in my soul." 



68 The Crescent Moon 



THE RECALL 

THE night was dark when she went away, 
and they slept. 
The night is dark now, and I call for her, 
"Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; 
and no one would know, if you came for a 
moment while stars are gazing at stars/' 

She went away when the trees were in bud 
and the spring was young. 

Now the flowers are in high bloom and I 
call, "Come back, my darling. The children 
gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport. 
And if you come and take one little blossom 
no one w^ill miss it." 

Those that used to play are playing still, 
so spendthrift is life. 



Child'Poems 69 

I listen to their chatter and call, "Come 
back, my darling, for mother's heart is full 
to the brim with love, and if you come to 
snatch only one little kiss from her no one will 
grudge it." 



70 The Crescent Moon 



THE FIRST JASMINES 

AH, these jasmines, these white jas- 
mines! 

I seem to remember the first day when I 
filled my hands with these jasmines, these white 
jasmines. 

I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the 
green earth ; 

I have heard the liquid murmur of the river 
through the darkness of midnight; 

Autumn sunsets have come to me at the 
bend of a road in the lonely waste, like a bride 
raising her veil to accept her lover. 

Yet my memory is still sweet with the first 
white jasmines that I held in my hand when I 
was a child. 

Many a glad day has come in my life, and 



Child-Poems 71 

I have laughed with merrymakers on festival 
nights. 

On grey mornings of rain I have crooned 
many an idle song. 

I have v^orn round my neck the evening 
v^^reath of bakulas woven by the hand of 
love. 

Yet my heart is sweet with the memory 
of the first fresh jasmines that filled my hands 
when I was a child. 



72 The Crescent Moon 



THE BANYAN TREE 

OYOU shaggy-headed banyan tree 
standing on the bank of the pond, have 
you forgotten the Uttle child, hke the birds that 
have nested in your branches and left you? 

Do you not remember how he sat at the 
window and wondered at the tangle of your 
roots that plunged underground? 

The women would come to fill their jars in 
the pond, and your huge black shadow would 
wriggle on the water like sleep struggling to 
wake up. 

Sunlight danced on the ripples like restless 
tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry. 

Two ducks swam by the weedy margin 
above their shadows, and the child would sit 
still and think. 

He longed to be the wind and blow 



Child-Poems 73 

through your rustling branches, to be your 
shadow and lengthen with the day on the 
water, to be a bird and perch on your topmost 
twig, and to float like those ducks among the 
weeds and shadows. 



74 The Crescent Moon 



BENEDICTION 

BLESS this little heart, this white soul 
that has won the kiss of heaven for 
our earth. 

He loves the light of the sun, he loves the 
sight of his mother's face. 

He has not learned to despise the dust, and 
to hanker after gold. 

Clasp him to your heart and bless him. 

He has come into this land of an hundred 
cross-roads. 

I know not how he chose you from the 
crowd, came to your door, and grasped your 
hand to ask his way. 

He will follow you, laughing and talking, 
and not a doubt in his heart. 

Keep his trust, lead him straight and 
bless him. 




BENEDICTION. 

From a drawing by Sui'endranatli Ganguli. 



Child-Poems 75 

Lay your hand on his head, and pray that 
though the waves underneath grow threaten- 
ing, yet the breath from above may come and 
fill ills sails and waft him to the haven of 
peace. 

Forget him not in your hurry, let him come 
to your heart and bless him. 



76 The Crescent Moon 



THE GIFT 

I WANT to give you something, my child, 
for we are drifting in the stream of the 
world. 

Our lives will be carried apart, and our 
love forgotten. 

But I am not so foolish as to hope that I 
could buy your heart with my gifts. 

Young is your life, your path long, and you 
drink the love we bring you at one draught 
and turn and run away from us. 

You have your play and your playmates. 
What harm is there if you have no time or 
thought for us? 

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age 
to count the days that are past, to cherish in 
our hearts what our hands have lost for 
ever. 



Child-Poems 77 

The river runs swift with a song, breaking 
through all barriers. But the mountain stays 
and remembers, and follows her with his love. 



78 The Crescent Moon 



MY SONG 

THIS song of mine will wind its music 
around you, my child, like the fond 
arms of love. 

This song of mine will touch your forehead 
hke a kiss of blessing. 

When you are alone it will sit by your side 
and whisper in your ear, when you are in the 
crowd it will fence you about vn\h aloofness. 

My song will be like a pair of wings to your 
dreams, it will transport your heart to the 
verge of the unknown. 

It will be like the faithful star overhead 
when dark night is over your road. 

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, 
and will carry your sight into the heart of 
things. 

And when my voice is silent in death, my 
song will speak in your living heart. 



Child-Poems 79 



THE CHILD-ANGEL 

THEY clamour and fight, they doubt and 
despair, they know no end to their 
wranglings. 

Let your hfe come amongst them like a 
flame of hght, my child, unflickering and 
pure, and delight them into silence. 

They are ciniel in their greed and their envy, 
their words are like hidden knives thirsting 
for blood. 

Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, 
my child, and let your gentle eyes fall upon 
them like the forgiving peace of the evening 
over the strife of the day. 

Let them see your face, my child, and thus 
know the meaning of all things ; let them love 
you and thus love each other. 

Come and take your seat in the bosom of 



80 The Crescent Moon 

the limitless, my child. At sunrise open and 
raise your heart like a blossoming flower, and 
at sunset bend your head and in silence com- 
plete the worship of the day. 



Child-Poems 81 



THE LAST BARGAIN 

" y^ OME and hire me," I cried, while in the 
V^ morning I was walking on the stone- 
paved road. 

Sword in hand, the King came in his 
chariot. 

He held my hand and said, "I will hire you 
with my power." 

But his power counted for nought, and he 
went away in his chariot. 

In the heat of the midday the houses stood 
with shut doors. 

I wandered along the crooked lane. 

An old man came out with his bag of 



gold. 



He pondered and said, "I will hire you with 
my money." 



82 The Crescent Moon 

He weighed his coins one by one, but I 
turned away. 

It was evening. The garden hedge was all 
aflower. 

The fair maid came out and said, "I will 
hire you with a smile." 

Her smile paled and melted into tears, and 
she went back alone into the dark. 

The sun glistened on the sand, and the sea 
waves broke waywardly. 

A child sat playing with shells. 

He raised his head and seemed to know 
me, and said, "I hire you with nothing." 

From thenceforward that bargain struck in 
child's play made me a free man. 



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his shorter lyrics he recalls Heine." — Boston Transcript, 

By FANNIE STEARNS DA VIS 

MYSELF AND I Cloth. l2mo. $1.00 net 

"For some years the poems of Miss Davies have at- 
tracted wide attention in the best periodicals. That note 
of wistful mysticism which shimmers in almost every line 
gives her art a distinction that is bound to make its appeal. 
In this first book — where every verse is significant — Miss 
Davis has achieved very beautiful and serious poetry." 

— Boston Transcript, 

By JOHN HELSTON 

APHRODITE AND OTHER POEMS 

Cloth. i2mo. 

This book introduces another poet of promise to the 
verse-lovers of this country. It is of interest to learn that 
Mr. Helston, who for several years was an operative me- 
chanic in electrical works, has created a remarkable im- 
pression in England where much is expected of him. This 
volume, characterized by verse of rare beauty, presents his 
most representative work, ranging from the long descrip- 
tive title-poem to shorter Ijoics. 

PUBLISHED BY 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-^ Fifth Avenue New York 



IMPORTANT BOOKS OF POETRY 

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
Daily Bread 

New Edition. Three volumes in one. Cloth, i2mo . 
$1.25 net. 

"A Millet in word-painting who writes with a terrible 
simplicity is Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, born in Hexham, 
England, in 1878, of whom Canon Cheyne wrote: 'A new 
poet of the people has risen up among us.' The story of 
a soul is written as plainly in ' Daily Bread ' as in ' The 
Divine Comedy' and in 'Paradise Lost.'" — The OtUlook, 



Fires 



^ 'Cloth. i2mo. $1.25 net. 

"In 'Fires* as in 'Daily Bread,' the fundamental note 
is human sympathy with the whole of life. Impressive as 
these dramas are, it is in their cumulative effect that they 
are chiefly powerful." — Atlantic Monthly. 

Womenkind 

Cloth. i2mo. $1.25 net. 

"Mr. Gibson is a genuine singer of his own day and 
turns into appealing harmony the world's harshly jarring 
notes of poverty and pain." — The Outlook. 

PUBLISHED BY 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



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